theanachronistictailor

For once, a guest did not have to find Tularemia. Instead, Tularemia found the guest, scampering up to the Tailor and immediately ramming into their ankle. She hissed as she grabbed the edge of their sock, tugging with all her might in the direction she came. There was nothing that could halt this courier from her self-appointed rounds; not rain nor sleet nor heat of day. If Tularemia decided that the Tailor was needed, then she would stop at nothing to retrieve the Tailor.

She was, though, wearing her new ribbon, so she may have had to pause to let that be applied, but her every pause ended eventually!

Tularemia had sprinted through hoards of hungry bats (perhaps snatching one as a snack in return), across puddles of moonish water with care, behind allies and away from cats, over rooftops and even across hats and heads. All to get to the Tailor.

ticktopis_observatorium

The Nightmares keep going after the Professor, relentlessly threatening their sleep with dreadful images, acts and feelings. On a successive series of nights, all the dreams started in the same way:

The Forgotten Quarter, unmistakable with its architecture, impressively preserved despite the many vicissitudes it had to endure, and the remnants of a once much more glorious Silver Tree visible and gleaming in the distance. But all I know is the comfortable darkness, the sweet taste of nectar and the soothing drone of so many daughters, dutifully building a hive that will survive...

Until that peace and contentment was broken by voices, human voices, echoing in the halls seared in burning symbols that change your children's songs and can end a life with the wrong move. They are careless in their giant steps, their heavy weights and clumsy flightless bodies. They kicked stones, roused the dust and shed light on the entrance of the hive. I had enough, and sent my children to teach them a lesson. If they can't carry their own bodies properly, they'll do well to learn how to carry mine...

There is havoc, screams, fire, death... It was expected, and worth the result. I can smell it in the air, feel it in the vibrations of my surviving children. They succeeded, the intruders fleeing, some of them with the scent marks of many eggs developping now within their eyes. Soon they will learn their lessons very well indeed...

From that point, the dreams diverge from each other. The second parts are as follows:

FIRST NIGHT

A Tailor is a good host. They already have a very developed sight, scrutinizing their surroundings like a predator who knows how to be a prey. A quick analyst of people, their signs, expressions, clothes... Clothes fill my mind without an end. The capability of feeling textures through sight is rare indeed, and so delightful. I could do so much for this Tailor, help them make me grow strong and abundant, nourished aplenty... And they wish to learn about how to represent identities through the burning symbols? So be it...

In time, I guide the Tailor towards their goals. Shaping their sight so they can no longer see expressions, colors and forms in people and their clothes, but symbols, all the information translated directly into Correspondence for them to doodle, dissect, embroider, weave, engrave and dye. It becomes so easy for them, to just understand a person (a prey) with a single glance of their by know swollen, reddish eyes... No longer a threat, any of them, as the Tailor knows themselves capable of disarming and breaking them with a couple of words, just like one makes an ill-fitting suit fall with a couple of cuts. Now if they only allowed the Tailor to show them how they truly are, how to present to be truly themselves, they would be so much happier... And they do, oh they do. The Tailor designs full attires delicately to shape a whole person's life, expression and ambitions, once and again, and again... No longer an Aspiring Taylor, not even an Anachronistic one, but a Tailor of Identities, who makes you become who you already were but didn't know. Humans, such silly beasts...

And when just writing isn't enough, the Tailor's gallblighted eyes guide them towards an even greater fabric. The hide of a singular creature, one whose touch already knows and craves. They corner it, hunt it, best it, then it is theirs... Punished to passivity, reduced to breeding stock and the witness of the skinning of every single one of their offspring, but only when its own hide doesn't grow back quickly enough. And this moment of triumph, this ecstasy of having reached the top, is enough to make their eyes burst in joy, and release a swarm of improved hybrids of them and I in an unsuspecting world of mindless drones.

ticktopis_observatorium

Back in Correspondence Class, the Chimeric Professor offered help to Thursday, who regrettably (yet with great reward) lost last week's class vital lesson. The Ex-Disgraced Academic's foresight provided him with the very same Correspondence grids they prepared for the class, but the Professor knew the taxing effect it had on the mind, so they knew Thursday would need company and solace at the very least. With that intention they gave him their address, then they received confirmation of his coming. With all prepared for an illuminating session, the Professor awaits the arrival, with pets on the know, a small yet significant case of assorted beetles and quite a lot of tea and coffee prepared, just in case.

themorbidsocialite

Bugsby's Marshes were home to a wide and varied array of micro- and macroorganisms, the biodiversity one of its most notable features. Yes, a great many of the creatures were incredibly dangerous, but wasn't every environment filled with such risk? Surely, all one had to do to avoid assault was avoid bothering the various animals. Surely.

This was how the Morbid Socialite- Mori- found himself in the depths of the marshes, gathering samples of water, plant life, lichen, and insects to start his research. He was too busy marking notes on a variety of mushroom to notice the eyes on him. The thoughtful hum to themselves and the squeaking of tall boots, worn to avoid staining the hems of their trousers, were enough to hide the sound of something treading through the muck. They only noticed the disturbance when the bugs they'd been surrounded by had scattered. He turned and his eyes widened, finding a second pair staring into his.

"Oh, bloody 'ell."

Screaming echoed across the marsh, likely reaching at least someone's ears.

ticktopis_observatorium

After a mutually interesting conversation between the Morbid Socialite and the Chimeric Professor, both students of the Correspondence agreed to meet outside of class for some follow-up lessons, most probably. They decided to do so in the Professor's home, a somewhat baroque, early georgian two-story house illogically placed on a high place in Watchmaker's Hill, overlooking London from one balcony and the Unterzee from the other, the direction of which was of course issued via Tularemia.

The hour of the appointment was near, and the Professor was setting up the materials they gathered for the ocasion, eager to deepen the acquaintance with one such intriguing gentlemortician.

ticktopis_observatorium

"What have I done...?" the Chimeric Professor thought to themself as they observed the frankly suboptimal angle at which they've arranged the Neathoscopic lens. It was far from adequate, and yet given the irregular space of the lab and its many implements, was the only one at which the Professor could combine a good emission distance with the array of lenses, prisms and measurers they're planning to install to better direct, reflect, refract, diffract and disperse the argumentative light they'll be working with. Not to mention the Feng Shui they studied from Khaganians, which theoretically helped channel the universal energies via a planned distribution of space. One never knows how many advantages one would need. But was it entirely necessary to rearrange for every new experiment their already replete laboratory?

Replete just like their personal agenda. How could the Correspondence Course work such (subjective) wonders on their social life? They already had compromised to help Thursday catch up with the lost class (and the previsible consequences), while also having talked with the Morbid Socialite (who suggested to dissect them? To whom the Professor teased? What's going on in their mind...?) about partnering up in their studies, besides the group study sessions Dr. Rosewood was already planning and promised to be too interesting to miss. They also got excited in front of the Emissary and compromised to an end-course project which while compelling, fascinating and likely deserving to impulse their scientific career, also implied lots of investment in effort, time and resources. Effort, time and resources they could so gladly be spending with the Myco-

There! The Neathoscopic emitter worked and projected a beam of hidden lights straight into the lab's ceiling. At least that will work perfectly as always. So proud they were of their Neathoscope. After persuading Dr. Gebrandt to part with some blueprints and doing the necessary arrangements some years prior, the Professor's Neathoscope has given many a joy to its owner and maker.

Just like the Soft-Eyed Mycologist. A source of joy, despite having now only known each other for four classes and a delightful week. Only thinking about him already made them sigh. If they just followed their heart they'll probably share every moment for who knows how many days with him. How can it be? What's wrong with them? Infatuated by one hell of a dancer, a mind of mysterious workings, a really handsome appearance and magnificent taste in clothing, and so open and familiar with the most esoteric matters of the Neath... How not to be drawn to such a flame, being just a moth? And with what he roused in them, the way they reacted to Maury...

But they have a duty to fulfill and a pride to live up to. And academic success has always ~~attempted to~~ been their driving force. They'll complete this project, they'll do it so perfectly they'll get patronage to further dive within the mysteries of Correspondence and argumentative light. And if they have such a delightful company meanwhile, all the better. But balance in all things, first and foremost. They just hope his husband's letter arrives soon from the Surface.

Until then, there's some sigil-carved plaques, specialized optical filters, and sources of color. They already have Apocyan amber holding a memory of the Sea of Spines, and it would be so easy if the Corresponding concepts of Love would be effected by Axile's terrible fate... And Cosmogone is the closest to the Sun among the hidden lights, so comparing the effects of both would be an easy process control...

ticktopis_observatorium

At one point, the Soft-Eyed Mycologist and the Chimeric Professor talked about going together some day to the shaping chambers... And said day, as stated by a note slipped under the Mycologist's lab door, has finally arrived. Said note gently asked to join at a certain hour by the Station IX checkpoint for a visit to Hallow's Throat via Gebrandt's Melinoë, gilded ticket provided. The Professor also invited the Mycologist to bring any sample of amber they so wished to test the effects of, but reassuring more than enough for the experience was already provided.

Thus, the Professor would be patiently waiting, once again covered in bandages and wearing a more simple attire than usually (amber keeps being rather unpleasant to finer fabrics). They're also carrying a leather satchel and a well-prepared fungal bouquet, obtained from a (comparatively) trustworthy devil contact, who gathered them from the very Iron Republic. She called them "An authentic challenge for only the most avid mycologists, a death sentence to any other." Conveniently bound by a ribbon altered by the Red Science that contains the fungal threats until released. They knew he'll enjoy ridiculing a devil's concept of "challenge", and perhaps even the treacherous contention method itself. They sure will.

leviathanlovely

It was so easy for the right nightmare to grip ones heart and pull the nasty trick of convincing them it was reality;

It was all the same as before; A cold, hard box who-knows-where but now they found themselves unable to even beat against the barred wood and surely many feet of dirt between them and the fresh night air The Pupil's lungs begged for. No, there would be no thrashing, bashing, and if the coiling vine cold as Drowners flesh had any say as it crept into the corners of the little thieves eyes, ears and mouth then there would be no seeing, screaming, as hearing was already dedicated to each loud thump of their heart and sweaty swallow from their throat coiled so tight by vines already as to gag them.

How long would this death take? Often The Pupil thought on Drowners, captivated by a song once experienced by rarity one excursion to the docks; in truth they knew very little about the poor things but drowning? Suffocation? What horror, a terrifying way to die and then what happened next... And death was never a thing to fear, but the before -- the excruciating before. That was this very moment.

Maybe uncovering the horrors of The Neath, attending class with their esteemed Ex-Disgraced Academic as the professor, entertaining Devils at The Embassy, all the ups and downs of these past two weeks had been the real nightmares; haunting and wanting and twisting The Pupil's need for mystery glitz and and glamour into sick apparition and in reality they had been rotting in this box, forgotten--

As their vision blurred into colors they would not be able to describe in the waking world a stray thought passed; At Least Belladonna Wasn't With Me That Night.

The Preening Macaw's outline flew from the blurred colors and wobbly lines of the wooden coffin. No sound, beak opening and the birds form became clearer, a sudden apparition of indignation bringing with it a stolen gasp of air as the world fell away becoming The Undistinguished Pupil's flat, The busy sounds of The Bazar outside muffled but the demanding caws from the bird pacing in circles across the circumference of their chest was not.

"Right, right..." Muttered The Pupil, carefully moving the blankets to get up. The other animals were usually patient for another hour or so, but never Belladonna who needed to eat before everyone else in the home to establish some sort of possible? Dominance? Careful not to disturb a peculiar, haunted looking mutt they had found by chance that slept at the foot of their bed, The Pupil was up and preparing their most notable avian companion a morning snack.

Current Location: The Bazaar
Current Music: The Beating Of Your Heart ft. a loud ass bird waking you up

the_brash_devil

The Brash Devil stood in darkness.

He looked around, not sure of where he was or where he should go.

Suddenly a scene was before him.

A gathering of devils. It looked like a party at the Brass Embassy. Celebrating their liberation from aristocracy by dressing down to the point of being scruffy and outdated, every one with a thorny rose around their wrist.

Is it possible to be both pretentious and trashy at the same time? To the Brash Devil, it felt like most devils managed to do that perfectly.

There were devils dancing in the center, somehow a perfect synchronization of many pairs of figure eights.

Many wore shoes with slivers of Nevercold Brass that created little sparks with certain steps of the dance.

He could practically feel the heat from the room.

But that's the thing, isn't it?

He isn't in the room.

There was an invisible wall separating him from the party. He couldn't see it, but he knew it was there.

Despite himself, he walked right up to the barrier and placed a hand against it.

Funny, he could have sworn he could feel the heat coming off it, but now it's cold....

Another scene appears.

Now it showed the rooftops of the Flit. A few of the urchin gangs had gathered for a special occasion.

Even the Naughts and Crosses are only being mildly rowdy and rough with each other. Practically a miracle.

He could tell from just that what the occasion was.

There was a "New Wind" coming up from the Bazaar and all the urchins were having a race in honour of it.

He smiled, remembering the last time that had happened. How much fun the race had been. Only two fights had broken out, with only one bloody nose. It was the best he'd seen all the gangs get along together.

Before the race they sang a Correspondence song. One of those ones they claim the thunder taught them.

(He'd never heard of such a thing but they claimed it's because the thunder only liked children)

And they were off.

He pressed both hands against the wall, trying to press through.

It was pointless.

He couldn't be with them.

The walls surrounded him now.

He was in London but could not move.

People passed him without a glance.

They were moving freely about the streets.

He was frantically pressing against the unseen walls as they were now pressing against him.

They continued pressing.

Him from inside, the wall from outside.

Eventually he was on his knees trying to hold back the unseen walls from all sides, even above.

He cried out. He yelled. He cursed.

And still people passed on by.

----

After he woke from the nightmare, at first he was reluctant to divulge to maven what it was. But after she had written down her nightmare while telling him about it (fuck that rotten family of hers), he finally told her. If nothing else than because he realized he needed her help transcribing the dream. (he did not want to try writing that all down himself) Afterwards, both returned to, thankfully dreamless, slumber.

tolpen

This letter (unsent) is not the account of the dreams the Soft-Eyed Mycologist had on the night from 24th of June to 25th of June, submitted to the Ex-Disgraced Academic. This letter was penned a few hours before the submitted account was drafted, heavily revised, and finally sealed in an envelope.

Addressed to: My heart

I belong to thee as thou belongst to me, and only to thee as thou only to me. This is not love; it will not save us. It will not condemn us.
Tonight I dreamed of the tomb which is a cradle again, and of thy person. I wish thee entered my dreams again. All I have seen lately is only the shadow of thine. ‘Tis the call of violant, forging the link between what I know that I know and what I know not yet that I know. I remember. My is the colour of memory; thy is the colour unnaming. Should my memory fail me, this letter shall persevere.
We travelled through the endless night. It was cold, as only night knows to be. The ways deep and the wind sharp. The very dead of winter; if I may call it winter, for winter is preceded by autumn and followed by fall. There was no time and no snow. Only the cold wind and the ash.
I had two companions. I knew them well then, but I know them not now. We spoke not, for there was nothing left to say between us. They held my hands, shackles of flesh and bone. I went willingly.
We were sore of feet and minds. We found no rest in laying down, in the ash-snow that melted upon our bodies until it robbed us of all the warmth we had left. Then it no longer thawed. We walked through the last winter after which there was nothing, three bodies as one, breathing and pale as the dead.

I recall reaching the cradle. ‘Twas a depression in stone from which the stars averted its light. The length was of a body and the depth was without an end. Icy water filled it to the brim, with a crust of ash upon its foam.
Within the cold water was not the body of a god. I did not see it and I did not offer a prayer to it, for I know not how to pray to such a god. Even if I knew, there is no god worthy of a prayer.
My chains, my companions, bound me to that tomb, they pushed me into the water. ‘Twas cold, colder than love, colder than life, colder than the night which knows no dawn. But my body was colder still.
The stone around me was a cage from which I knew no escape. Never before had I been submerged for this long. Never before had I known the world above the water’s surface.
My lungs burned, they ached for air.

That was when thou pulledst the cage from the cold water with a great rattling of the chains from which it and I were suspended. I knew this person to be thee and not-thee, for I saw thy face, and I knew within the dream as I know upon waking thou wouldst never bare thyself in such indecency.
My body was cold and naked and ached for thy warmth. I begged this false thee to embrace me. I cried, tears burning through the icy crust on my face.

Thy reflection dropped me back into the black waters of the grave that was no longer there. I knew it to be thy mercy, thy rescue from the nightmare of the tomb and cradle and the journey beyond the end.
I called for thee.
Water filled my lungs. I know well the necessity. Only when I am cold within and without, only then I know how to appreciate thy warmth. Only when my hearts have stopped, I know how to live in thine.

I wish it were thy hands that held me in the cold, dark waters. Thy teeth that tore me apart.

Thine, as always
[the signature is illegible]

theliedpiper

The Lied Piper sat with legs crossed in the Labyrinth of Tigers' Second Coil. Behind the bars, but that was safe here, unlike in the Third Coil. Here, they were something of a cross between an employee and a celebrity.

(Maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but either way, nobody bothered them.)

They hummed casually on their kazoo, feeling out pieces of melody not yet fully composed. Their mind wasn't much on it; it was just something to keep them busy while they hung out with the Somnolent Hyaena. The creature seemed to enjoy the song well enough. It kept trying to nuzzle their side, like a big cat. Maybe it liked the rat smell on them.

Or maybe it just wanted attention. Every time the Piper's masked face met those green eyes...

Their limbs weakened. They tucked the kazoo into their belt, yawning. They felt they might finally lay down for a nightmareless nap.

Of course, that wasn't exactly the plan. There was a reason they'd waited until now to come see the Hyaena, and it wasn't just because of the nightmares sparked by this week's class.

(Honestly, they weren't much worse than usual. The professor had really hyped them up too much. Twisted dreams of forgetting and betraying their friends? Bone growing over their eyes? Monsters they fought shifting to have human faces? Yeah, that was a normal Thursday. They were fine.)

"Y'know, I expected my first death to be a little more exciting." They yawned as their strength continued to drain. Maybe they should've gotten into a duel instead. But this was more efficient. Dying on its own wouldn't soothe any nightmares; it would probably just make them worse. This method would kill two birds with one stone.

Er... kill one bird and put the other to sleep...? Whatever.

"Thanks for the help." They patted the Hyaena's head blindly. "You're a real one."

They had an appointment with a dead assassin. Hopefully they'd make it back in time for next week's class.

The green light surrounding them faded, and all went black.

Current Mood: sleepy

the_soft_hearted_maven

The nightmare The Soft-Hearted Maven experienced wasn't a new one, but it had been awhile since she had last had it and with such intensity.

----

The ballroom may be lavish and bright, but all The Soft-Hearted Maven could focus on was the droning around her.

Pretty-seeming people saying pretty-seeming things, in all actuality so empty.

She stood still, hoping that doing so meant no attention would be drawn to her.

God her legs ached.

Where was her sister?

"There you are, there's someone you have to meet!"

No.

Suddenly the ballroom was gone. All was dark. But she could still see the people. No longer even a facade of prettiness. Writhing masses of shadow and viscera, shining eyes and smiles focused on her.

The worst was the floor. Or rather, the lack of a floor.

In its place was a tightrope beneath her feet. But to call it a tightrope was giving it too much credit. It was a thin wire, digging into the soles of her now bare feet, making them bleed.

It wasn't just the wire though, was it?

The lashes on the back of her legs had opened up.

(Those scars will never go away, will they)

The blood was dripping down like a waterfall into the abyss, covering the wire, making it slippery.

Could they really not see?

Did the layers of expensive fabric really cover the blood and pain so well?

Where was her sister?

"Well? Come over and greet them!"

Deep breath.

She began walking. Shoulders back, spine straight, hands clutched at her front.

The wire bit into her skin with each step.

The blood continued to spill.

She briefly became aware that she had wings, like that of a butterfly or a fairy. Could she try to fly?

(Fly where? Fly to them? Fly away?)

A cursory flap said no, as she felt a painful crack go up from her back up through the wings.

The act caused her to slip slightly, and she lifted her arms to keep balance.

All at once the eyes around her narrowed and the smiles widened. Voices that were both hushed and deafening surrounded her.

"The poor dear."

"Not much you can expect from one who's only half nobility."

"Perhaps if she had been raised from birth it could have been different."

"That's generous of you to say, but no matter how you polish it, a flawed diamond will never have the value of a flawless one."

"Now lets not be cruel, I'm sure she could still make for a perfectly suitable second wife for someone. Regardless of her birth, she still comes from a good family after all."

"That is fair. With her docile nature, she certainly has more value than that boorish sister of hers."

Laughter rang out, and suddenly she was seeing red.

How DARE they speak of her sister like that, she-

SNAP

The wire snapped, and she was falling in a shower of her own blood and the shattered pieces of the wings.

At first she just saw the faces, watching her fall.

Then she felt compelled to turn to the abyss.

Rising to meet her were the corpses of her parents, as freshly slaughtered as she remembered from that day.

----

The Maven was no longer falling. She was in her bed, clutching at the Brash Devil. His eyes shown in the dark, a look of concern on his face as she breathed heavily. No words needed to be spoken at the moment, just a comforting embrace as the visions remained in her mind's eye.

theliedpiper

Sign In:

Sign In

Before Class:

Inviting themself to dance lessons with Devil, Maven, and Mycologist
And everyone clapped! ... No? Just me?
Exchanging notes for scrap with the Mechanic
Greeting the Sub and Maven checking in

Lecture:

A change of perspective?
Fire! In The Classroom (ft. Devil and Mechanic) (Don't try this at home!)

Activity:

This is easy! ...says the one who, uh, didn't actually end up finishing it. Oops

After Class:

Letting a "secret" slip (monster hunting debacle setup)
Dancing plans

Current Music: Close by Jamie Paige

tolpen

The lights are still bright and the crowds bustle - although for the Veilgarden, this is fairly low traffic. The air is thick with the wine of yesternight, honey, and a mixture of perfumes.
The Soft-Eyed Mycologist is stalking- no not, stalking, he is loitering on the edge of the area. Biding his time. Waiting. He has a pocket watch. He doesn't check it, not even once.
Unlike earlier today, he is not wearing light blue nor teal. The tailcoat is true apocyan and so are the trousers. The waistcoat is silver and white. There is a lapel pin in the shape of a cross, and there is a pair of comfortable yet dashing shoes. They click audibly on the cobblestones and the occasional spark betrays that the soles are reinforced with steel.
Wherein one would expect him to carry a walking stick, all he holds is a parcel of a modest size, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine. It doesn't appear to be heavy.

Current Location: the Veilgarden

the_soft_hearted_maven

"What happened after Class Two of the Correspondence Course?"

Finally posting what will be the beginning of the Monster Hunter RP for The Lied Piper, The Anachronistic Tailor, The Soft-Hearted Maven, and The Brash Devil

Keep in mind I'm still very new to this specific format of text roleplaying, so if I need to do something different don't hesitate to shoot me a line and be like "Uh hey wtf are you doing XD"

Link to the thread in Class Two where we left off: https://benthic-university.dreamwidth.org/973.html?thread=140237#cmt140237

themorbidsocialite

From the Journal of the Morbid Socialite, Dr. Mementomori Malodrema:

“This particular nightmare has haunted me three nights running since the lecture attended on the twenty-fourth of June, resisting honey, laudanum, and even forced insomnia, finding me waking at my desk, unaware that I had ever fallen asleep. As per the suggestion of the Emissary and Professor, I have seen to it that this nightmare be logged and acknowledged. If the mind sees fit to plague me to get me to pay attention, then my attention is granted, though not without bitterness and bleary eyes.

The nightmare begins thus:

I start with a foetal mound of flesh in my hands, squirming and mewling, though the features of the underdeveloped creature resemble both a human child and some unidentified creature of the Neath's design and, in doing so, resemble neither. My mind tells me to name it and all I can think of are London streets, London shops, the beating heart of London between my hands and leaking placental blood between my fingers and to the undefined floor below, spreading from the point where it drops like webbing and, all at once, like tears.

I am wearing gloves, cold, impersonal, and the premature babe can tell and cries harder, a sharp, painful, wailing thing that sounds like death itself. I am afraid. I am so very afraid.

My hands venture close to closing around the babe, trembling and strong enough to crush the frail body.

I am afraid.

A figure, simultaneously dark and bright, simultaneously merciful and hateful, simultaneously understanding and disgusted, approaches. It takes the mound of flesh from my hands before I can close them and I feel my heart- or perhaps my soul- tear free of my ribs, tethered to the bleeding creature that is both flesh and concept. London is taken from me and yet it is all I have.

All at once, I am falling through imperceptible void, though I know that it is filled with colors and lights I cannot see and figures that mean me harm. I cannot open my wings, it hurts to do so and they refuse to catch nonexistent wind. I am falling and falling and falling for ages that feel like a second. There is a great flash of light, a great, burning pain that overtakes my mind and body…

And then I awake, screaming.

I have so few days to resolve these dreams. It is time to take drastic measures.”

themorbidsocialite

If one had a calling card and could find an ermine stoat in the heat of False Summer, they could offer up the card and a scratch behind the ears to be escorted through London, to the flat of the Morbid Socialite. Due to the twisting nature of the streets of London, it was difficult to tell if the flat was situated closer to Veilgarden, Spite, the Flit, or Mahogany Hall, but it was nonetheless a small flat on the second storey of a building, requiring that one climb the internal stairs to reach the top floor. The door was simple, wood with a brass handle. Depending on the time of day, any number of sounds could be heard, from the chittering of weasels to the chattering of half-adopted urchins, from the cacophony of recreational drink to barren and utter silence. And, if there was a stocking on the door, it was best not to listen in.

Tularemia would climb up the simple door frame and stare down at the guest with stark, black eyes before disappearing into a small crack in the wall. Unless the guest knocked, they would be left on the stoop...

(OOC: I've realized I've handed out plenty of calling cards and invitations and had no place to start RPs, so consider this as my starter for anyone wanting to RP one on one if we haven't established how it would otherwise start!)

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the anachronistic tailor

a keen-eyed fellow

The Stoat Insists

A Dream of Ambitious Gall

Thursday's Nightmare Grid

A Marsh Guest

A Morbid Appointment

Reflecting on a Newborn Project

A Flexible Appointment

Nightmares of The Undistinguished

From The Outside Looking In (Devil's Nightmares)

Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi

Homework

Surface Pressure (Maven's Nightmares)

Week 2 Threads

An Encounter in the Veilgarden, 24th of June

Monster Hunter RP

An Exerpt

An Invitation Accepted

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